


Running Out of Time

by sebviathan



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Fluff and Angst, M/M, Non-Stop era, hamilton wrote 110k words in 6 months can you fucking believe, well partially
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-05
Updated: 2015-12-05
Packaged: 2018-05-05 03:52:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5360069
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sebviathan/pseuds/sebviathan
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Burr observes the haste with which Hamilton writes and, in his worry that he truly <i>is</i> running out of time, confronts him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Running Out of Time

It should be impossible, to write that quickly.

Of course, Hamilton's done a great deal that Aaron thought impossible beforehand. But that doesn't make it any less unbelievable—and it would be even  _more_  so if it was anyone but Hamilton. No one else has consistently surprised him more and more.

Aaron almost regrets turning him down in his request to help defend the Constitution, if only so the man wouldn't feel it necessary to strain himself so much. He  _would_ if there was any evidence that that ever would have helped, if he wasn't positive that no matter how much help he might have offered, Hamilton would be working no less.

They started only two months ago, and nearly 40 essays have come out of it already. Aaron's read all of them in spite of himself and even if he couldn't tell exactly which ones were Hamilton (most of them), he sees the man almost every day.

Hunched over his desk from dawn till dusk, scrawling so furiously it must leave indents in the wood, Hamilton adds to a rapidly growing stack of paper by the hour. Most of it gets thrown out, as Aaron can tell by the ink-soaked wads in the corner of the office every time he visits. And yet there's somehow still so  _much_.

There doesn't  _need_  to be this much, he thinks—and which he tells Hamilton, which he's had to tell him far too frequently in all the years he's known him—but of course Hamilton disagrees.

"As much as I'm capable of expressing my defense, I should," is his go-to answer.

 _Surely Madison and Jay could take some of the load,_  he wants to press, but ultimately decides it would be pointless. They've taken exactly what they agreed to, and Hamilton has likely decided that if he wants this done right then he'll have to do it alone.

_Why ask me for help, then? Just to see if I'd finally say yes and abandon political neutrality for one of his whims?_

Though he supposes it can't be called a  _whim_  when the man seemed so genuinely upset at Aaron's refusal, and when he spends every waking moment writing and rewriting until his hand is surely numb.

Aaron often wonders how much sleep Hamilton even manages these days. Among other things:

Why such a short deadline? What's his haste? (If anyone else worked at such a pace, they would finish a lifetime of work in a mere few years.)

That thought initially comes in passing, but it begins to haunt him. About half as often as Hamilton is writing, Aaron is trying to figure out  _why_. Soon his frustration escalates to legitimate concern, and every moment he spends in his presence is much heavier than before. Heavier in  _what_  exactly, however, it takes him some time to realize.

It's not just worry, but fear. And not just that his friend will strain himself until he falls ill (or behave with such hubris that it kills him like he's expressed before)—but that he already  _has_.

The idea drives him crazy, mainly because he has no idea how to go about confronting a person about this sort of thing. It occurs to him briefly to take his concerns to Eliza first, but he quickly shuts down that thought, knowing that Hamilton would much prefer he be direct.

Eventually (that is, about another month into this  _Federalist Papers_  business), instead of going home one evening, Aaron simply walks next door. He doesn't knock, as he's been informed he never has to, but he does note before entering that while there's a light on, he hears no pen scratching.

 _This isn't much of a confrontation,_  he thinks when he sees Hamilton asleep at his desk.

Though in the dim candlelight, he looks less asleep and more... as much as Aaron dreads to think it,  _dead_. One arm remains crooked over his paper, pen still in hand, as though he passed out in the middle of a sentence—and the other is hanging off the end of the desk. And though he stands several feet away anyway, his heart stops the moment he realizes that he can't hear Hamilton breathing.

At which he crosses the room in three quick strides, wide-eyed and frantically searching for a sign of life to make sure—and his chest is, indeed, moving up and down. Aaron's entire body relaxes in relief.

He should pinch out the candle and leave his friend to get some much-needed rest, but he doesn't. Instead he remains standing there, staring down at him with all the worry he's felt in the past weeks now flooding through him all at once. Something in him won't let him look away.

Very few times before has Aaron seen Hamilton in such a vulnerable state—and perhaps it's all the speculation getting to him, but now he looks more vulnerable than ever.

Leaning over the desk to get a closer look, he puts two fingers to Hamilton's neck and checks his pulse. He's no doctor, but it feels normal. He then slides his hand up to hold Hamilton's cheek, and something about it feels wrong—like it's too invasive, too  _intimate_ , like it's less of him checking his temperature and more of... a caress.

Just as that word pops into his mind, the man underneath his hand shifts and, almost too slightly to notice, opens an eye.

"Burr, what are you doing?"

Aaron's heart catches in his throat as he jerks his hand away and stands up straight.

"...You're dreaming," he decides to say in a moment of panic, hoping he's merely half-conscious like he sounds and will believe it.

But of course, Hamilton then sits up, rubs at his eyes, and pulls off a piece of paper sticking to his face.

"Am I?" he laughs. "A little delirious and tired, sure, but no, this is too solid to be a dream. I'll ask again, Burr, what are you doing?"

Leave it to Alexander Hamilton to speak so eloquently while exhausted.

Aaron lets his shoulders drop and decides to go with the truth. It's what he originally came here for, after all.

"I was... checking to see if you were okay."

Hamilton tilts his head. "Well, of course I'm okay. Why wouldn't I be okay?"

Unconvinced, Aaron sighs and hastily grabs the other chair, pulling it around to sit in front of him, thus leaving the other man with a confused frown until he finally has the nerve to be direct:

"Alexander, are you running out of time?"

He raises an eyebrow in response, seemingly waiting for some punchline, and when he doesn't get one he frowns again.

"I don't... think so? It would depend what you mean—"

Aaron grabs him by shoulders abruptly and intensely, unwilling to sit through any more bullshit, and Hamilton looks momentarily frightened.

"Are you  _dying_ , Alexander? I swear to God you act like it, you—you write like a man on a mission, like you're worried you won't have enough time to finish—"

"Burr," he stops him, his voice soft and a wry smile creeping onto his lips. Aaron's brow tilts inward. "...I've felt Death breathing down my neck ever since I escaped its clutches as a child. At least thrice, since then, I believe I've stared her in the face..." Hamilton glances down, briefly, to shake his head, and Aaron notes how deep the circles under his eyes are, then. "And this—defending the document that will lead to all I've ever dreamed for this country—is so important to me that I can't allow the smallest chance of not seeing it through. I suppose... I fear that my luck will soon run out, Burr, but to my knowledge I'm not ill, nor do I plan to die once I finish. Does that comfort you?"

He resents any notion of needing to be comforted (Hamilton sounds like a mother reassuring her child that everything will be okay), but truthfully?

"Yes, it does." Aaron exhales and allows a small smile of relief, and then realizes that his hands are still on his friend's shoulders. After a moment of deliberation, he drops one, and moves the other to Hamilton's cheek again. "I think you may have a slight fever, though."

Hamilton gives him an amused smirk and leans into his hand. Aaron will only let himself believe it's simply because he's tired.

"If that's true, then I've had a 'slight fever' for months. It hasn't impaired my writing, as I'm sure you've seen."

"Hm." He chooses to say nothing to encourage Hamilton's pride—if only because he doesn't need it. And he feels his forehead for a moment (it is a bit warm) before holding his cheek again. "...Do you really believe Death is a woman?"

Despite how exhausted the man is, Hamilton manages to bark out a laugh, now not only leaning further into Aaron's hand but also bringing his own hand up to hold it there.

"Is that your basis for whether or not I must be ill? Surely the notion isn't that ridiculous."

"It isn't," he insists, "I'm only curious. I've never met a man with that opinion."

If anything, the evidence of his fever would be the near forced intimacy. Not that Aaron's complaining.

He shrugs. "Women bring life into the world. It only follows that they would deliver it out as well."

"...Well, it may be in the best interest of everyone if she lets you remain here forever." Perhaps it's the warmth between them that makes him say it, or the relief and affection softening him somehow—either way, it's how he truly feels at this moment. "You'll always have something new that's too important not to see through... You'll never be finished."

Lips half-covered by both his and Aaron's hand, Hamilton grins.

"There's still a million things I haven't done, minus a hundred or so."

After several moments of silence between them, Aaron thinks that the both of them have grown tired to the point of lacking inhibition, and that further physical interaction may be... unwise. Awkward, at the least.

"Alexander—" He pauses.

"Hm?"

"Allow me to take you home." It would be rude to just leave him here, he decides. "I won't take no for an answer—you need some proper sleep and I'm not allowing you to continue writing tonight."

He expects him to argue, but all he does is hesitate a good ten seconds before finally letting his hand slide off of Aaron's, and thus Aaron's hand off of his face.

"Alright, Mister Burr."

Hamilton is clearly too exhausted to even stand up from his chair without a little help, so Aaron ends up keeping an arm around the man's waist the entire walk down the road, and vice versa. It's nice, and soft, and warm especially—and the exact sort of thing he wanted to avoid, but he thinks he might deserve to indulge just a bit.

When they arrive at his doorstep, Aaron isn't the only one reluctant to let go. Hamilton doesn't relinquish his grip so much as shift it, sliding his arm up until he's holding Aaron's face the same way his own was held earlier.

He leans into it.

"Alexander?"

"Thank you for checking up on me," he says, as sincere as can be. "But you needn't worry, Burr—I believe my share of the essays might be halfway through."

That's not nearly as comforting as he seems to think, but with that and an affectionate pat on Aaron's cheek, Hamilton finally leaves his side. He can make it the rest of the way to his bed on his own, surely.

A pair of  _goodnight_ s, softer than they've been spoken in a long time, and Aaron Burr is on his way home. Alone.

 

*

 

_To take someone's life, that is something you can't shake._

 

Nearly fifty years later, Aaron Burr lies in an otherwise empty bed in an empty room in a quiet boardinghouse. The past thirty years or so have been filled with grief that couldn't be shared, and the last two have been nothing more than an indignity. Even if not for his mistake, he'd rather die than be confined to a bed like this, unable to even feed or clean himself.

If he could communicate his wishes, perhaps he'd have been relieved of the shame by now. Everyone who loves him has died; who would say no?

But he can't, and it's his money that's going to the women caring for him, so they're not going to off the source of their income. He's just stuck, with only himself to speak to—and God, if you count all the times he's wished that his life would just end.

He's been wishing that for a long time, though mostly in the back of his mind. With every loss he's faced the wish grew stronger for a while, then faded out a bit—somehow he has never been able to keep it, to commit to the idea of leaving the world even after outliving his own daughter and grandson. Something in him has always been utterly self-preserving, and only in the past few decades has it felt like a burden.

It's a day just like any other when Aaron feels a pull, like his seemingly endless time is finally,  _finally_  up.

That pull is a soft sensation on his cheek, which grows to feel as though someone is gently holding his face. It occurs to him to look over, and even though he's hardly been able to ever since his stroke, he turns his head all the way.

Alexander Hamilton stands by his bedside, looking the way he did almost twenty years before that fateful day in Weehawken. Young, still a million things he hadn't done, and yet oh so tired.

And not entirely solid.

After having waited for so long, Aaron breaks into a trembling smile, and he clasps a hand over the one on his cheek. Which he shouldn't be able to do at all.

"Have you forgiven me, Alexander?" He hasn't heard his own voice in so long that it sounds strange and unfamiliar. And while his eyes well up with tears, his vision remains unobscured. "Is this punishment at an end?"

For a moment Hamilton doesn't seem like he's going to speak, but then his ghostly figure leans over the bed.

"Yes, I think so, Mister Burr."

With that he smiles and extends a hand for Aaron to take, and then pulls him out of bed with ease. He doesn't let go even once he's standing—and now he doesn't know whether to stare at Hamilton, or at where his own body still lies on the bed... or down at himself. He feels physically much younger now, and a glance at his hands prove it.

Of course, his tearful gaze lands upon Hamilton regardless.

"...I'm sorry," is the next thing he thinks to say.

"I know." He seems glad to hear it. "I will concede to you one thing, though—as it turns out, I was wrong about Death being a woman."

It's been so long since Aaron laughed.

Hamilton wraps an arm around his side as he delivers him out of this room and this world. He leans into it.


End file.
